Pulp Fiction
by Unproductive Airman
Summary: A story about seat assignments, deviled eggs, and how Butters Stotch almost ruined just about everything.
1. Chapter 1

Hi all, this is my first long-term, somewhat-serious South Park piece. I'm not all that emotionally invested in the show as some folks are, but I'm punctual and efficient, so updates will probably be frequent enough. I don't like "high school dramu" "everyday life" stories, usually because they're boring as fuck, so, I'll try not to be as boring as fuck. Peace out.

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><p>Chapter One<p>

The snow crunched placidly beneath the hatchback's worn out tires, the only sound in the otherwise still mountain air. The street was deserted, except for the sentinel trash cans left out on the curbs. However, it was getting on to five in the morning, and city-hired sanitation workers would be along soon to collect them.

"Don't touch me," snapped the young woman in the passenger seat, surprising the boy beside her. Clyde Donovan's right hand retracted, and he looked unsure of what to say next.

"Bebe," he began, his tone half-perplexed, half-joking as usual.

"Just shut up, Clyde. Let me think for a minute."

Clyde obeyed, clenching his fingers on the steering wheel and staring out of the windshield anxiously. He wasn't worried about being told to shut up (she told him that almost daily) but he was worried that Bebe was thinking. Most of his life up to this point had been proof that nothing good had ever come of thinking.

Seconds, then minutes passed, and he contemplated turning on the radio just to keep himself from nodding off. He was exhausted, and he smelled, partly because he'd fallen into a puddle of beer and partly because he'd fallen onto platter of deviled eggs shortly after. He was picking at something that had crusted onto his knuckles and looked suspiciously like blood when Bebe started waving her arms frantically in front of her.

He thought for a moment that she might have been having a fit, and he wasn't sure if he should start shouting for help or give her the Heimlich before he realized that she was just trying to pull off her jacket. Actually, it was _his _letterman's jacket, earned when he'd been appointed Captain of South Park High School's varsity wrestling team, and promptly re-gifted to his girlfriend, Bebe Stevens. She had gotten one of her own, of course, when she'd been made Captain of the softball team, but Clyde insisted that she wore his. Because that's what "dudes do."

But as she was now yanking it off as if it were burning her skin, she was also disrupting the delicate order of the universe and all things that dudes did.

"Babe, what are you doing?"

Bebe thrust the dusty green jacket into his face, her torso now covered only by a magenta tank top. Goosebumps already began to rise up along her arms. "It's over, Clyde."

He almost didn't hear her over his somewhat disgusted fascination with her goosebumps. What was the deal with goosebumps, anyway? "What?"

"I said, it's _over_," Bebe repeated nasally. Her face was blotched and wet, her fingers fumbling numbly with the seat belt as Clyde tried to return his jacket to her, to cover up those very distracting goosebumps, and the even more distracting curves of her tits.

"What is?"

"This. Us," Bebe said, wiping her running nose on the back of her arm, the seat belt sliding back into its little seat-belt-cave as she finally managed to click the button. She began scrabbling at the door, her vision apparently foggy with tears. "I'm sorry, Clyde, I just can't take this anymore."

It wasn't the first time Clyde had heard this from Bebe, and he was almost sure that it wouldn't be the last. "Baby," he said, reaching for the not-snot-covered hand as she opened the door. "I'm sorry. What did I do this time?"

"That you even have to ask is such bullshit." Bebe was shivering now, a cold wind forcing open the car door. The snow squeaked as she thrust one leg outside. "You made out with Lola Stewart for a bowl of chips, you fucking prick."

The night had been a bit of a blur, but Clyde did remember a bowl of chips. Not just any chips, though-they'd been the last Cool-Ranch Doritos left, and he'd been really, really hungry. "It wasn't making out," he started, though he also remembered that there'd been a lot of tongue. "And they were really good-"

"I can't believe-"

"No!" Clyde shouted uncomfortably, his voice echoing off of the silent, stalwart houses. "No, look, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Can't we talk about this?" He didn't have the awareness to keep the note of panic out of his voice. She actually sounded _serious. _In all the four years they'd been together, she'd never sounded so set on dumping him.

Bebe was standing now, her hair frizzing around her face, her nose rosy and her lips now purple with cold. "I don't care what you do, Clyde. I don't want to talk about it, not right now, okay?"

He sat in the front seat, jacket in his lap, trying not to stare at her nipples as they poked out almost comically beneath her shirt. "Uh," was all he could manage as a response.

"Thanks for the ride," Bebe said shortly. "I'll see you later."

Clyde flinched as she slammed the door and turned, walking up the drive to her front door. He watched her fiddle with the lock and go inside, mentally following her route from the hall to her bedroom, maybe to the bathroom, where she'd wash off the make up that had begun to run. Would she go to bed? Maybe read a book? Find something to eat? Log on to Facebook and update her relationship status?

He stared at the steering wheel, both hands clutching it uncomfortably tight. The silver Volvo logo gleamed.

Shaking his head, Clyde gripped the keys in the ignition and listened to the engine liven up. It didn't roar-it was a _Volvo_- but he liked to imagine himself behind the wheel of a car with an engine that roared. Ideally, with a babe in the passenger seat, or in the back, framed by another pair of babes. Almost automatically, he knew that Bebe would never be one of those babes ever again.

"Weird," he said, setting down the gas and pulling away from the curb. It wasn't as if he lacked any babes to choose from, but knowing that his options were now narrower was unsettling. Lola Stewart was a babe, but she was a seven, where Bebe was a full on eight-and-a-half. He also thought he loved her, even if he didn't quite know what love was really supposed to be.

Clyde Donovan didn't think often about love, but the moment he did was also the moment he chose to ignore the stop sign posted on the corner. It was the moment he didn't see the pale green sedan emerge into the intersection, and he still hadn't seen it until his front fender was sunk into its passenger door.

"Fuck," Clyde announced, startled from his reverie by the noise and the imprint the steering wheel had made on his forehead with that sudden stop. He was dazed and confused, and, a second later, panicked.

His dad would kill him for getting into another accident. They'd suspend his license, or worse, make him take the bus to school. He'd just lost his girlfriend, and it would sting his ego beyond repair to be forced into riding the bus.

With a shriek of tires, Clyde backed up until he could drive around the other car, speeding down the road without another glance back.

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><p><strong>AN<strong>

Lola doesn't have a last name on the South Park wiki (I did my research) so I just slapped on the last name of her voice actor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"It's a small town, Wendy. Word travels fast."

The halls of South Park High School were rowdier than usual; people were catching up on the gossip and escapades collected over the winter holiday, pushing and shoving along old routes to new classes. There were some shouts of elation, and others of dismay, as students discovered just who was in their class, or who was teaching Global History this semester, or if someone really went _all the way _at Mark Cotswold's Christmas party. There were unheeded and indecipherable announcements coming over the intercom, but they were unheard as a small herd of jocks made their way down the corridor. There were high-fives and hoots as the varsity wrestling team passed, lead by their captain.

"See you tonight, buddy," said one admiring student, exchanging a traditional fist-bump with Clyde. Wendy didn't hear what Clyde said in response, instead turning back to her long-time boyfriend with a frown.

"I know, Stan. Still, it's weird to hear about your best friend's break up from _someone else _first."

She tucked a wayward lock of black hair back behind her ear before reaching into her efficiently organized locker. A small bag at the bottom contained an almost infinite supply of pink hair ties, which was useful, since she always seemed to be losing them. Her hair _had _to be pulled back for her next class, or else the teacher would dock points. And Wendy Testaburger _never _lost points.

Stan Marsh shifted his weight from foot to foot, finally leaning against the wall of lockers and settling his girlfriend's textbooks against his side. He didn't _have _to hold them for her, and most of the time he didn't, but now and then he insisted, since it was just something that "dudes do."

And it made him feel useful, which was something Stan needed when Wendy was so much more put together than he was. Some days he even wondered if he was less a boyfriend and just one of her innumerable accessories.

"I'm sure Kyle didn't mean anything by it. He doesn't gossip. He was just worried."

"Worried? Why would Kyle be worried about Bebe? Does he like her, or something?" Wendy closed her locker smartly, smoothed her purple cardigan and reached out for her books.

"No," Stan said quickly, though he wasn't sure why he'd be so defensive about the idea of _his _best friend liking _hers. _"At least, I don't think so. He's just a nice guy, you know?"

After Wendy had herself arranged, he hefted his bag on his shoulder and reached out to take her hand. Automatically, Wendy took it, then let go with a flinch.

"Wait. I forgot. I don't have Volleyball for third anymore. I had to move to Bio so I could have Study Hall fifth period."

Stan let his hand fall back to his side limply. "Oh."

Wendy leaned forward and kissed his cheek (any lip touching would get them both detentions.) "I'm sorry, babe. I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

He gave Wendy a one-armed embrace, tugging lightly on her ponytail with a grin. "Yeah. See you later."

They separated, moving down opposite ends of the hallway, one occupied with just what might be on the menu for lunch today while the other mentally tallied how many Student Council members she'd still have to remind about the meeting after school on Wednesday. Wendy counted the steps of the northern staircase under her breath as she took them up; at the same time, Stan quietly recited the combination of his gym locker, just to make sure he remembered.

Mr. Posley's AP Biology was at the far end of the science and math wing, overlooking the roof of the administrative offices, and beyond that, the student parking lot. The walls still had their cheesy, outdated posters and framed copies of the awards and certificates that Posley had gained over the years-and there were a _lot _of years behind him. The balding, squat teacher was hunched over his desk, shuffling through lesson plans when Wendy entered.

"Mr. Posley," she said, and he looked up. He seemed to have a perpetually startled look about him, though it probably had a great deal to do with his enormous glasses.

"Ah, Wendy, that's right, you're in my third period class now. That means you'll be sitting…" He picked up a sheet of paper from a right-side pile. It was a grid scribbled over with names, arranged alphabetically. "…In the back, table closest to the window. Next to Mr. Tucker."

Wendy had been in Posley's classes since freshman year, and while he usually affected formalities when addressing other students, he'd just been calling her Wendy. She didn't care what he called her, but to some kids, it made her look like a bit of a teacher's pet. Turning away from his desk, she took in the rest of the room. Others were still filing in from the hall and taking their seats. She didn't recognize anyone else that might have transferred from her fifth-period class, but knew a handful of the other faces that nodded back at her. One of them, she noticed, was Lola Stewart.

Averting her eyes from the supposed home wrecker, Wendy made her way to the farthest row of sturdy black tables. They were typical science-class fare, secured to the floor, with gas pipes in the middle for Bunsen burners and room enough to seat two students on one side. Past them was the counters and sinks, and cabinets of assorted equipment, since the room also hosted the chemistry classes. The "Mr. Tucker" that Mr. Posley had partnered her with was none other than _Craig Tucker_, a boy of such exceptional sourness that it surprised her to see him still in school, let along _Advanced Biology._

"_You're _in this class?" She asked, not bothering to hide her incredulity. He was staring out the window and made no sign to acknowledge that she'd spoken. She wondered if he was wearing earbuds under that hideous blue hat of his (and how did he get away with wearing it everywhere, anyway?)

She reached out to tap his shoulder. "_Hello-_"

His head jerked around and he glared. "I heard you," he said, his voice nasal, his nose red.

"Then why didn't you answer?"

"I don't answer stupid fucking questions."

It was like a slap. It _had _been a stupid question, Wendy knew, like when people asked about hair cuts, or if bears shit in the woods. But people asked stupid questions all of the time, out of politeness. Perhaps she'd been too optimistic to believe that Craig Tucker would have any sympathy for politeness.

"Whatever," Wendy muttered, taking her seat as the bell rang. Craig resumed staring out of the window, and Mr. Posley took attendance, counting the heads of his students and laying out the rules they'd all learned the semester before.

Craig Tucker certainly hadn't been polite freshman year, when they'd been in the same Basketball class for the first two weeks of school. He hadn't participated or worn his uniform the entire time, and had transferred out as soon as he could. He'd attended the same middle school as Wendy, and, of course, the same elementary school, but that had been a long time ago, and all she remembered was that Stan never liked him.

He wasn't exceptional, but he wasn't so boring that he could be easily forgotten. She knew he was friends with Tweek Tweak, who was in her sixth period Pre-Calculus class, and more or less still on speaking terms with Token, her fellow Student Council member. That was part of coming such a ho-dunk, quiet mountain town: the same kids you watched pick their noses in kindergarten were the ones you went with to senior prom.

Wendy really hoped that Craig Tucker didn't pick his nose anymore.

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><p>The courtyard was the last place anyone wanted to be that crisp Monday afternoon. The sky was thick with grey, oppressive clouds, and the air was bitingly cold. The cafeteria was typically overcrowded, forcing students to huddle together for warmth on the scattered tables, scarfing down their French fries and barely-passable pizzas before retreating to the food-free halls.<p>

Wendy Testaburger and Stan Marsh were counted among them, along with their usual cohorts. Kyle Broflovski sat on the table and hugged his French book to his chest, mumbling verb conjugations into his gloves and rocking from side to side for heat. His back kept nudging Token's Coke, and with every past-tense, he was sure it was going to fall and spill across his Literature homework, and ruin all the work he'd been putting off for the two weeks of vacation and was choosing to finish two hours before it was due. The look Wendy gave him as he finally moved the Coke to his other side said it all: if it did destroy his homework, he _totally _deserved it.

Her hair now free from its tie (and said tie subsequently vanished from the Earth,) Wendy turned her gaze from Token across the table to her best friend, on her right. To her left, Stan was finishing off the rest of her fries.

"I don't want to talk about it. I'm all right, really," Bebe said, fiddling unconsciously with an oversized bracelet. Without thinking about it, Wendy pulled her hands apart and held them in her own. Bebe added with a frown, "It's been a long time coming, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess," Wendy agreed. Bebe and Clyde had been dating since middle school, and they'd had their rough patches and seperations before. However, Bebe had assured Wendy that this time they were through, once and for all. It was strange to think about, like if she'd woken up to find that her house was painted yellow instead of green. A part of the landscape of South Park had changed.

Clyde hadn't seemed to notice. His noisy posse of wrestlers and other sportsboys passed through the courtyard, headed for the gate that lead out to the student parking lot. Bebe held still, pointedly not looking until they had vanished around the corner.

Stan had finished eating by then, reaching for Token's Coke and swallowing a mouthful. A moment later, he choked.

"Coke _Zero_? Token, what is this garbage?"

"Shut up."

"Kyle, stop that," Wendy said, and returned her attention to Bebe. "Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?"

"Thanks, but I can't," Bebe replied.

"I thought _I _was coming over for dinner," Stan interjected, sounding hurt. Wendy sighed.

"You are. I could have you _both _over for dinner, you know. Okay. But we should do something this weekend." She paused as Stan's arm snaked possessively around her waist. "Softball's starting up soon, isn't it?"

Bebe leaned down to pick up her bag. "Try-outs are next week. Yeah, this weekend, maybe."

"My last game is on Thursday," said Stan. "You could come with us."

"Keep me company," Wendy suggested enthusiastically, leaning forward, though Stan refused to let go. "It's a home game anyway."

The blonde offered a wane smile. "Yeah. Sounds great."

She gave a vague wave to the other four, though Kyle didn't notice. Once she was gone, however, he slid down into her seat, and the bell rang, calling them back to class.

"Shit," he declared, slapping his knees with the textbook in a strange fit of frustration.

"Say it in French," said Token. They were in the same class, and headed for the same test, which in his mind was a cruel torture, orchestrated by the most villainous of teachers.

"_Merde._"

Token clapped him on the shoulders and they headed inside, leaving Stan and Wendy alone.

"I got my letter from Virginia this morning," said Stan, grinning from ear to ear. "I forgot to tell you this morning."

"You did? Baby, that's great." After a quick glance around, and finding no staff nearby, Wendy gave him a chaste peck on the lips.

"It is," Stan agreed, taking her hand as they walked toward the main building. "Have you…?"

"No, not yet. Not from Virginia, anyway."

Wendy had applied to the University of Virginia, of course. She'd been looking up Universities since eighth grade, and had encouraged Stan to do the same. He didn't follow her advice with any spectacular fervor, of course, but lately, he'd been fixated on the idea of attending the same college. It had been endearing at first, and even heartwarming, but now it only made her nervous. She always got nervous when she lied.

She _had _gotten the letter from Virginia, on Saturday. But she hadn't even bothered to open it. She'd already made up her mind to go for the University of California, and she knew that _he _knew it, but it hadn't yet been said.

"Don't worry about it, though," she said quickly to appease Stan's crestfallen face. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Yeah, maybe tomorrow."

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><p><strong>AN<strong>

Gotta write fast.

Words too slow.

IDK later bro.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN**:

There is drug use in this fic. Nothing hardcore, just pot, you know, and there was alcohol mentioned earlier. Does that mean I have to bump the rating up to M? That's enough to make it an R in the movies, you know, which is kind of ridiculous. Murder is only PG-13, but if you smoke a little pot, suddenly it's a big deal and you've got to be accompanied by an adult. Why is that? Why is pot so scary? In fact, I think if these homicidal characters just got a little high and calmed down, they might not be so inclined to kill people.

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><p>Chapter Three<p>

Craig Tucker ignored the assault against his ears as he passed through the cafeteria, brushing the noise and conversations off as easily as persistent dandruff. He was immune to the shouting and food-flinging that erupted from the colorful, overcrowded tables, sidling around a gaggle of pimple-ridden freshman in the hopes of reaching the doors before anybody had even registered his passage. The exit brought him to the lobby of the auditorium, which was only the extended cafeteria, but much less crowded, preferred by upperclassmen who were much quieter than their younger counterparts. He knew more faces here, but passed by them just as blithely, because knowing someone was much different than actually _knowing _them enough to ask if they really had a chapter review in fifth period or if he could just blow off for the rest of the day.

Chapter review or not, Craig Tucker was not sticking around.

He had nothing against his fifth period literature class, and nothing _for _it, either. _The Lord of the Flies _hardly required twice-weekly class discussions, in his opinion, and it wasn't as if he ever went out of his way to participate. Some interpreted Craig Tucker's indifference as hostility toward the system, or even themselves, but in the simplest terms, he didn't care. There was no misanthropic motivation behind his lack of interest, it was merely something Craig Tucker _did._

And in his usual, predictable way, he passed right through the lobby and through the dark tunnel that served as the hall between wood shop and the visual arts classroom, until he came to the wide, empty space behind the building that housed the pool. It was a vague feeling sort of place, where the atmosphere of the school mingled uncertainly with that of the town, since the pool served both South Park High and the community. The road of the neighborhood the school was situated in came right up into the lot, along disused portables and dumpsters. Despite the openness of it, Third Street was usually almost always empty.

Craig followed the edges of the portables until he was suitably out of sight from the main buildings, and heard the voices of the other denizen vagrants of Third Street, a sound which was both irritating and reassuring. If the other kids were here, it meant that the lone campus security officer hadn't come by and tried to shoo them ineffectively back to class. Not that Craig was all too worried about Officer Charlie; not many truants bothered to listen to an overweight, retired policeman who had shot himself in the foot while he was still on the force, and would talk the ear off of anyone who would listen to him tell the story.

The trio of darkly dressed students fell silent as Craig rounded the corner, but not out of any fear or respect. They just didn't want to get in trouble, and as soon as they knew it was him, resumed their usual gabble. Craig strode right by them before settling by the corner of a portable, upwind of the garbage and out of the reach of the bramble that had begun to grow up around the dilapidated structures. His backpack hit the ground only moments before his backside, and the asphalt was as unforgiving as always. He didn't even have to look as he shoved his hand inside, reaching beneath his math book for a well-abused paper bag settled comfortably at the bottom and out of sight.

It wasn't particularly smelly, which meant it wasn't very good, but Craig sensed rather than heard the other kids pause as he pulled it out. He didn't join them on Third Street often, but when he did, they knew it was to smoke. He couldn't smoke at home-his sister would rat him out in a second, not out of any policy of do-gooding, but only because she liked to watch him get in trouble, and Craig would not give her the satisfaction. He certainly couldn't smoke at work, and none of his friends had any interest in it. While he would never admit it, though, Craig knew there was just the slightest bit of excitement in bringing grass to school.

The smoke sent greedy tendrils toward the sky, dissipating before any of its wispy fingers could grab hold. Craig stretched his legs out in front of him, examining first one sneaker, than the other. Somewhere nearby, tires screeched as a car sped up, going far over the twenty-five mile-an-hour speed limit that ringed the school on all sides. Probably just more students, skipping out on class, doing the reckless things that kids did.

Craig Tucker was not particularly reckless. Smoking wasn't the worst thing he could do, but he never had the inclination to try anything terribly bad. Not that he could have if he wanted to, either, since there wasn't much else to do in South Park besides drink and smoke and drive in circles. _Bad _was also a relative term, and Craig Tucker would go to hell before he settled his life according to somebody else's rules.

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><p>"Yes, three o'clock, Wednesday," repeated Wendy, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice as she paced in the front hall of her house. She paused in front of the wide mirror that hung on the wall there, frowning at her reflection, and what was surely the beginning of a pimple right in the middle of her forehead. Even though she knew she shouldn't, she scratched at it, listening to Rebecca Reynolds mumble about fundraisers for the Glee Club on the other end of the line.<p>

"I don't want to talk about it _now, _Rebecca, save it for the meeting. It's, like, _nine_, and I've still got Pre-Cal homework."

The other girl was usually very vocal, especially during Student Council meetings, but Wendy was too strung out to wonder what had made Rebecca so guarded over the last few days. After reassuring her that, yes, she _would _be there at the meeting on Wednesday, Wendy hung up and returned to her room, where she could brood in peace.

She didn't actually have any Pre-Calculus homework that night. It was an easy thing to say, a little lie that had slipped out, a life preserver to get her off of the phone and back into her bed to sulk. Her fibs to Stan had come undone that night at dinner, when her parents had asked after his college prospects. Despite their being only juniors, the Testaburgers had a healthy interest in their daughter's college choice, and a polite curiosity about her boyfriend's. He, of course, had told them all about Virginia, and that, in turn, had revealed the letter she'd received the weekend before.

Stan, understandably, had been very upset.

"You said you didn't get a letter from Virginia," Stan had said later that evening, as they stood in the front hall, saying their good-byes. They both spoke in hushed tones, like Wendy's parents always did when they were arguing somewhere out of sight.

"I'm sorry," Wendy said, and she meant it, finding the heavy guilt unsettling, making her want to be sick, despite how little she'd actually managed to eat. "I didn't want to tell you, Stan, because I don't want to go to Virginia. You know how I feel about UCLA. Their political science program is great, and their women's studies is something I've been looking at since ninth grade."

"But I thought you said you _wanted_ to go to the same college?" Stan was hurt. He always showed it when he was hurt, which had once endeared him to Wendy, but now, more often than not, annoyed her. He reminded her of his father, in some ways; Mr. Marsh rarely had the awareness to mask his feelings, which was probably why Stan rarely invited her over on the weekends he stayed with his dad.

"It would be _nice,_" was all that Wendy had conceded. "But this is _college_, Stan. I've already made up my mind."

Stan leaned against the door, then reached out and took her hand. "Can we talk about this? Later?"

That was something else that drove Wendy to her wit's end. He always wanted to talk about things, even when they'd been exhausted and solved, and she was moving on. The only reason he wanted to talk was because he thought he could somehow convince her to see things his way.

But Wendy Testaburger was not going to change her mind.

She now ran her thumb reflexively over the buttons of her cellphone, wondering if she might call Bebe. But she wasn't in a talking mood anymore, so she set it aside on her dresser before flopping down onto her bed, lamenting on how cold the top of her comforter was. It was probably much warmer _beneath _the covers, but getting up again seemed like a lot of work.

Her room was typical, the walls bearing the evidence of years of changing tastes and trends in the form of posters and other souvenirs. She needed to do laundry, her hamper spilling out of the closet, a trail of socks littering the floor. Next to her bed, a goldfish, the most recent in a long line of many, swam in mindless circles.

"Stupid fish," Wendy muttered. It didn't need to worry about college, or boyfriends, or being re-elected Class President for next year. She wasn't too terribly nervous about that last bit, since she'd been Class President since they were freshman. No one ever really put up much of an opposition, and she couldn't imagine why not; involvement in student government kept her busy, and at some times, it was even enjoyable, and looked good on college applications. Maybe the other students just didn't have the motivation to try a little more, to reach out beyond the snowy streets of South Park.

That was part of what drew her to UCLA. It was warm there-it was California, after all-and it was far away from the Rockies, and the Midwest, and the ho-dunk mountain-town culture that she was beginning to resent. It had been quite a culture shock when she'd gone to visit family in Los Angeles that summer. It made the people of South Park, and their small community mindset seem almost _uncivilized. _

Maybe it was like that in Virginia, too, she wondered. She knew Stan was chafing at the bit, though not as bad as she was, and hoped that he would be happy on the East Coast. The University of Virginia was a good school, and they had even offered him athletic scholarships. And besides, it wasn't as if Virginia was really all that far, and they could still visit each other on holidays.

Sadly, Wendy realized that if she did go to UCLA-and she would go to hell before she went anywhere else-and Stan went to Virginia, they probably wouldn't have any reason to visit each other anymore.

Somehow, the idea of breaking up didn't sting as badly as she thought it would. Sure, it would be unpleasant, and probably awkward, and she wasn't in any hurry to do it, but Wendy knew she'd be fine. And Stan would be fine. Not like the other couples who clung to each other, pledging their eternal love with Shakespearian melodrama. Clyde and Bebe had been together for ages, longer than Wendy and Stan, and they seemed to be working out just fine.

That gave Wendy the impetus to sit up and reach for her phone, deciding that she should at least text Bebe to see how she was. To her surprise, she found that her best friend had already texted her first.

_Still on for Thursday?_

Wendy probably texted faster than she typed, the buttons on her phone beeping as she sent her reply.

_Definitely. You okay?_

Bebe's answer was nearly five minutes in coming, which made Wendy worry, even though she knew she shouldn't.

_Yeah. See you tomorrow._

Wendy sighed and fell back against her pillow. Bebe was usually verbose and outspoken, but she wouldn't talk until she was good and ready. Wendy didn't want to imitate Stan, pushing buttons until her best friend exploded. Those sorts of discussions never ended well, and Wendy didn't have any real cause for concern. Bebe was levelheaded and smart, and as she had said, this breakup had been a long time coming.

She wasn't much worried for Clyde either, though maybe that was out of a strange vindictiveness. Even though she knew Clyde, she didn't really _know _him; in fact, she was closer to Token, who was another mutual friend. Almost absently, she remembered that Craig Tucker had once been a friend of Clyde's, too, and that they'd gotten in their fair share of mischief back in middle school. Now it seemed the two hardly ever spoke, but she couldn't imagine why.

"Probably because he's such a pig," she said quietly into her pillow, meaning Clyde. Of Craig Tucker, she couldn't say much, except that he was obnoxious, but hadn't done anything yet to offend her personally. That would probably be too much work for him, she reasoned, which also made her thoughtful about how this next semester would turn out. They were stuck together for the rest of the year, and she would _not _carry his grade. She might not know much about Craig Tucker, but _he _didn't know much about Wendy Testaburger, and just how stubborn she could be. Mr. Posley would not allow any sort of academic injustice to take place in his classroom, and no matter what laziness Craig might have gotten by on so far, she would not play his game. Wendy Testaburger had a spotless record of good attendance and even better grades, and when it came to finally getting out of South Park, she would not let anyone get in her way.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>

I don't actually know anything about UCLA's Political Science or Women's Studies programs, or how good they might be. This chapter was mostly about character-exploring, and not a whole lot happens. I feel like it should have maybe been tacked onto the end of number two. What do you think?


	4. Chapter 4

**AN**: HEY GUYS WHAT'S UP? I didn't forget, I've just been superwaymondo busy. And you know what! I still am!

Also: I started and planned this story out post-_You're Getting Old _and pre-_Ass Burgers_, so Stan's parents are divorced and he and Kyle are still bros. Just an FYI.

* * *

><p>Chapter Four<p>

Luck was not on Wendy's side.

Tuesdays had always been her least favorite day of the week. It was like Monday dragged on for another twenty-four hours after it was supposed to be gone; Wednesdays were fine, because they were the middle day, which meant the week was halfway through. Thursdays were similar to Tuesdays, just getting in the way before Friday. Although, Wendy supposed, you couldn't really appreciate a Friday without all those Tuesdays and Thursdays in between.

But this Tuesday she could have gone without. Stan was determined to "talk" more about going to Virginia, and she was just as determined to let it drop. So she'd been short with him this morning, which meant he was going to sulk for the rest of the day. She tried not to think about it as she sat down in Bio, glad that Craig Tucker was not the nosey type.

In fact, he hadn't said a word to her since their short exchange the day before. He didn't look like he'd be willing to break that pattern even as Mr. Posley announced that they would be getting their semester project assignments that day.

"They'll be your Final Project at the end of the year," the bespectacled old man emphasized. "So don't put them off until a week before they're due. You'll be keeping track of them in your Journals…" There was an audible moan from the assembly of students. "…And I'll be checking them every week, starting next Tuesday."

It would be too much to hope that Posley would allow them to choose their partners, Wendy knew, and as she predicted, he grouped them by table. She would have no choice but to work with Craig up until the end of the year. Turning, she opened her mouth to tell him that she was _not _going to be doing the heavy lifting, then immediately closed it, seeing that he was actually paying attention. No, not particularly enraptured by Posley or excited at the prospect of science, but she couldn't exactly call him out for slacking. Or not working, when they hadn't even started yet. It would make her look like a huge jerk-when the jerk here was _obviously _Craig Tucker.

Posley had decided to leave their actual projects up to chance. Walking between the tables with a beaker full of numbers written on slips of paper, he instructed the students to choose one, and then handed over the corresponding projects. Sitting in the back left Wendy and Craig for last, so the girl reached in and pinched the only remaining number between her fingers.

"Ten," she read aloud, quite unnecessarily, and holding it up for Craig to see. He stared at her as though she'd grown an extra pair of eyes.

Before Wendy had enough time to get offended, Mr. Posley dropped their task on the table. The packet of paper seemed surprisingly thick, especially since he only printed on one side. Wendy made a mental note to suggest it when she skimmed the front page and felt her stomach plummet.

"What the fuck?" Craig said to Mr. Posley's retreating back.

"Language, Mr. Tucker," Posley responded. "If you have a question, please raise your hand."

Wendy grimaced as Craig's arm shot up into the air. The other paired students were reading over their projects with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and were probably glad that they hadn't wound up with _hers. _She read the title again, just to make sure she wasn't seeing things:

_Feeding Earthworms: the Effects of Diet on Soil Enrichment and Reproduction. _

Fantastic. For the next several months, Wendy Testaburger and Craig Tucker were going to be looking after _worms. _

Mr. Posley waited until he'd moved back to the front of the room before calling on Craig.

"Mr. Tucker?"

"Where the hell am I supposed to get worms for this crap?"

The other students snickered into their hands as Mr. Posley answered, "Watch your language, please, Mr. Tucker. Haven't you ever been outside when it rains?"

To Wendy's surprise, Craig's normally indifferent expression was now positively belligerent. He sounded incredulous. "_What_?"

Mr. Posley said smoothly, as if he had dealt with Craig's outbursts before. "Relax. Go to the sporting goods store, they'll have them with the fishing equipment."

"Oh." Craig settled back in his seat for an instant, but then his arm was up again.

"Yes, Mr. Tucker?"

"Where's the sporting goods store?"

Laughter ringed the room and Mr. Posley sighed. "Why don't you ask your _partner_, since you'll be working on this together. Ms. Testaburger, please? I have other students to help."

He shifted his attention to the other students with questions and Wendy picked at the staple holding the pages of her packet together. Quietly, she suggested, "We can go to Dick's."

"Excuse me?"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "_Dick's_. Sporting goods. There's one on Main. Honestly, grow _up_…"

Craig was snorting and sniggering, much to her disgust. They were far too old to be laughing at penis jokes. Scowling at him, Wendy was getting ready to tell him off when she noticed the redness in his eyes.

"Oh my God. You're _high!_"

Craig flinched. "Don't shout, Jesus. Yeah, so?"

"Ugh," Wendy turned away from him. "I can't believe you."

He only smirked, leaning back in his seat and staring out of the window, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Wendy, however, was trying to decide what she should be thinking. She'd never smoked, and didn't know anyone who did. It wasn't something she was compelled to do, either, unlike some people who seemed to go out of their way to try and taunt authority.

But Craig didn't seem to be doing that. In fact, he seemed different; he certainly talked more when he was high. Was it the drugs? Or something else? It was only their second day of class together, and Wendy still didn't know him at all.

"We should pick them up together," she said suddenly. "The worms, I mean."

"Yeah, whatever," Craig replied.

"Are you free today after school?"

"No," he said, still talking to the window. "I'm working."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Cool. You drive, right?"

He finally looked at her again, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Yeah."

"I've got a meeting after school, but we can go to Dick's. Want to swap numbers, or..?" Wendy hesitated, not sure if she really wanted Craig Tucker's phone number, and fairly certain that he wouldn't want hers.

He surprised her again, reaching into the pocket of his faded blue hoodie and pulling out a small, nondescript cellphone. He chuckled quietly.

"You said dicks."

Craig didn't say much else for the rest of the class, and Wendy wasted no time in getting out and into the hall. Her next class wasn't far, but required passing through corridors that were almost horrifyingly crowded at the peak of their four-minute passing period. And since she and Bebe always passed each other en route to their classes, they had to set aside at least a minute of conversation.

To Wendy's delight, Bebe seemed almost like herself again. She wore her varsity softball jacket, and had even done her hair in a different way than usual. When they talked, they didn't say anything terribly important. That would all have to be saved for lunch, after all, which would be in an hour. It would give Wendy time to sort through the dilemma of Craig Tucker, and just how they were going to handle their Final Project.

She sat down in her pre-calculus class, still unsure of how much she could trust him. She still wasn't sure about how she felt about the whole "coming to class _stoned_" business, but it hadn't done any harm. Yet.

This was not going to be easy. Wendy Testaburger prided herself on her ability to gauge people, but Craig Tucker was proving to be rather unguagable so far. As the bell rang, their teacher, Mrs. Kiels, called for them to pass up their homework.

Wendy flipped through her binder, considering the boy in front of her. His frazzled blonde hair had recently been cut, which didn't do any favors for his ears, which stuck out on either side of his head.

"Hey, Tweek," she asked, handing over her paper, which he obligingly took. "Do you know Craig Tucker?"

Tweek Tweak angled his body around, his face betraying that he was obviously surprised by her question.

"Yeah," he answered. "We're friends."

"Oh. Cool." Wendy hadn't really thought of what to ask next. "Does he… does he usually do his homework?"

Tweek frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know. We don't usually talk about homework."

Wendy chewed her lower lip. "Uh. What do you usually talk about?"

"I dunno," Tweek said, facing forward again. "Stuff, I guess."

"Stuff," Wendy repeated to herself. If she was going to be working with Craig, she would need to figure out just what 'stuff' made him tick. It was the only way they'd both be able to pass this final project and survive.

* * *

><p>Clyde looked over the spindly, pimply crew that had come to try out for wrestling with mixed feelings. His most prominent feeling was, of course, hunger. He had missed out on lunch because he was too busy making out with Lola Stewart, a decision he didn't entirely regret because he'd gotten to feel her up while they were at it. Usually, he'd be able to assuage his hunger immediately after school, but today called upon Captain Clyde Donovan to fulfill his duties.<p>

Though it didn't look very promising so far. The wrestling team's coach, Reggie, was significantly more optimistic than Clyde was, bellowing orders at the try-outs, demanding push-ups and crunches and laps around the gym. It was his rather effective method of weeding out the weak, with those who didn't survive the trials getting tossed out until only a handful remained. Clyde remembered having to do the same, but thankfully his position exempted him from having to do it again. Still, it was kind of fun to watch, like a show on Animal Planet.

Most of the boys who had come to try out were ones he didn't recognize, and their names on the sign-up sheet were almost all impossible to read. Several were far too scrawny to have any promise. Like antelopes. They would be the antelopes on Animal Planet, skinny and flighty and not good for much besides being fed to alligators. Not like hippos, which were huge and strong and completely alligator proof.

About an hour of Reggie's grueling regiment had passed when the overweight coach approached him. Clyde was sitting on the bottom of the home team bleachers, trying to see how fast he could tie and untie his shoes when he heard Reggie clear his throat.

"What's up?" Clyde asked, his head turned awkwardly, his face squished uncomfortably against his knee.

The coach pointed across the room. Sitting on the visitor's side of the room was one of the scrawny hopefuls, looking very uncomfortable in his too-large gym uniform. His black hair was short, but stuck up haphazardly; he kept patting it down as he met Clyde's eye. Immediately, he looked away, as if he was ashamed to be caught looking. His leg started jumping, like it had a mind of its own.

"I kicked him out of here, like, half an hour ago," Reggie said. His voice was hoarse from decades of smoking, even though he'd quit. "Can't even do a set of crunches. But he won't leave. Go over there and see what he wants."

Clyde grumbled and groaned, but stood obediently as Reggie returned to humiliating underclassmen. Shuffling across the gym, Clyde thought he knew the other boy, though it took a lot of concentration to recall a name.

"Stoley, right?"

The young man jumped when Clyde spoke. He'd been trying very hard to look like he wasn't paying attention while Clyde made his journey, and now that Clyde was here, he didn't know what to do.

"Yeah. Hi," he gibbered. "My name's Kevin."

Clyde didn't bother introducing himself, everyone knew him already. "What're you doing here, Kevin?"

"Trying out."

Clyde rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to hide it. "Coach says he threw you out. Try-out is over, man, go home."

Kevin stood. "I can't!" He burst out. Then, quieter, "I can't go home. I have to join the wrestling team."

Clyde shifted his weight from foot to foot. "You look more like a chess club guy."

"I am a chess club guy," Kevin replied. "But I need to join a sports team. For a scholarship."

Clyde frowned. "Then go for track. They could use another javelin."

Kevin cringed, his mouth working up into something that almost resembled a smile. He'd get better at it if he practiced. "Ha. No, they're full. I mean, I want to join wrestling."

"No you don't," Clyde said plainly. He knew what it took to be on the wrestling team. He was Varsity Captain, he had the jacket and everything. He could feel the wrestling in himself, and his teammates. The camaraderie, the loyalty, the mutual appreciation of rolling someone else's ass on the mat. He didn't feel it in this Kevin guy, who was standing between him and the door and a quick trip through Shakey's drive-thru on the way home.

Kevin's face was exasperated. "I do. I have to!"

"Why do you _have _to?"

"It's for a scholarship," Kevin mumbled. "I need athletic credits."

"Oh." Clyde was already bored of this conversation. "You'll figure it out. But you can't join wrestling. You'll only get hurt. You're an antelope."

That last bit just slipped out. Kevin's desperation turned into confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," Clyde shook his head quickly, and began to walk around the other boy. "Join some other team, okay? Sorry. See you later."

He was halfway across the gym to retrieve his gym bag when he heard Kevin call out after him:

"I know you need to raise your geometry grade!"

Clyde's sneakers squeaked as he came to a sudden stop. They squeaked again as he turned and speedily made his way back to Kevin, eyes wide. He felt angry, though he wasn't sure why. Everyone knew he was bad at math. It was just that no one ever brought it up.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He snapped. Kevin flinched, though Clyde had made no move to hit him.

"I'm a TA for Mrs. Kiels. I grade the papers, sometimes. You need to raise your grade, or you'll fail. If you fail, you'll get kicked off the team."

Clyde's nostrils flared, like a hippo about to charge. "That's none of your fuckin' business, Stoley. Get out of here."

"I can help you," Kevin said quickly, but confidently. He had something to say, and with that purpose, his nervousness had fled. "If you get me on this team, I can help you with your geometry grade."

Clyde pursed his lips. "What, like, rig the tests?"

"_No_," Kevin said. "Like, tutor you."

"I don't need a tutor."

"Because you're doing so great without one," Kevin said dryly. "Come on. I've tutored lots of people."

Clyde considered. He _really _considered. It was true that he would lose his captaincy and his spot on the varsity team if he had anything less than a seventy percent when the quarter grades came out. And so far, it wasn't looking good for Clyde Donovan's GPA.

"Yeah, but it's not like I can make Coach put you on the team," Clyde pointed out. "I mean, like, I can strongly suggest it, but no guarantees."

"Well, okay. You suggest it. And if I make it on the team, I'll be your tutor."

Clyde knew better, but he couldn't help but think that this was some sort of blackmail. Only no one was getting hurt-except for the wrestling team. Well, Kevin certainly wasn't getting on varsity, and he was sure he could find a way to make sure he was on the team but didn't have to get in any matches. First and foremost, Clyde would have to talk to Reggie. Which would mean waiting until try-outs were over and putting off his after-school Shakey's trip for just a little longer.

"Yeah, cool, okay," he said. "I'll let you know how it works out."

"Thanks," Kevin replied, reaching out a hand. After a moment, Clyde realized he wanted to shake. Kevin's hand was a little limp, like a fish, but it wasn't the most awkward handshake Clyde had ever had.

"See you around." Kevin picked up his backpack, and pointed at Clyde's feet. "By the way, your shoe's untied."

* * *

><p>Butters Stotch didn't have a whole lot of places to go, but while the car was in the shop, he'd become more familiar with South Park's bus system than he'd ever wanted to. Though it wasn't much of a system at all-there were only two routes, on that went north to south, and the other that ran east to west. The buses themselves were well kept and clean and even eco-friendly, but the people on board made him nervous. They were strange, some smelled, and others talked to themselves. Butters knew better than to judge his fellow man, but it was not without relief that he hopped out onto the sidewalk and inhaled the crisp afternoon air.<p>

The north end of South Park didn't have a lot going for it. It was dirty and industrial, with lots of garages and warehouses and a bowling alley. Fortunately for Butters, his destination wasn't far from the bus stop, and it would be his last trip through the neighborhood for a while. He hoped.

Speedy's Garage was small, and you almost wouldn't notice it. It was wedged behind the bowling alley, next to a gas station, but out of the way of the main highway, so you could pass right by and never know it was there. Butters walked up the drive and through the main garage doors, calling out for the mechanic.

"Kenny? You around?"

Butters tried not to breathe too deep. The smell of oil fumes and who knew what else was almost overwhelming, and his mother had warned him about the dangers of inhaling chemicals. He could even asphyxiate!

So he was reasonably horrified when he saw Kenny-his tell-tale orange jacket smeared over with all manner of dark stains-roll out from beneath the white minivan parked inside the garage. He was holding some kind of tool that looked more suited to bludgeoning people than auto repair, and grinned at Butters' shocked expression.

"Kenny! What're you doing down there?"

Standing and brushing himself off (but actually making himself dirtier) Kenny answered, "My job. 'Sup, Butternut?"

Butters liked Kenny, even if his parents didn't. They called him a degenerate delinquent, even though the only bad thing he'd done was drop out of school. But he had a job, and he was good at it. And he was always friendly, even if he was a little strange.

"I'm just here to pick up the car, Speedy called and said it was done."

"Aw, yeah. It was easy." Kenny dropped his tools onto a rack of similarly sinister devices and wiped his hands on a cloth he kept shoved in his pocket. "Around back. You payin' today, or…?"

"Yeah, today. How much was it?"

The pair made their way behind the garage, where other cars were parked, varying in age and disrepair. The Stotch's green sedan was among them, the large dent that had occupied the front right fender now completely disappeared.

"Three hundred," Kenny replied. "But I'm adding an extra twenty because you had some weird green shit smelling in the back seat. I threw it out, I didn't think it was important."

Butters was momentarily confused, but the memory came back to him. "Oh. That was some deviled eggs. I took them to a party. I must've forgot them in there."

"Didn't look like they were much of a hit."

"Clyde Donovan fell on them."

Kenny doubled over, laughing. "He did? That's hilarious. Wish I could see." He straightened as Butters handed over the money owed, and laughed again. "I was joking about the extra twenty, man. You keep it."

Butters smiled hesitantly. He still didn't quite get Kenny's humor, but then, he didn't see much of him anyway. "Oh. Okay. Thanks again, Kenny. Sorry about the mess."

Kenny waved at him dismissively. "Whatever, man! I'll see you around."

It felt good to be behind the wheel again, but Butters was cautious. He still didn't know who had hit him that night after the New Years party, and sometimes, he expected them to come careening around a corner and knock him around again. He hadn't been hurt at all, but his parents had not been happy.

It was only because he had newspaper club after school that he managed to convince them not to ground him again. He was still on thin ice for the time being, as well as late for the newspaper club. As he pulled out onto the road, he risked a glance at his cellphone, and saw that Eric Cartman had texted him no less than four times in the last ten minutes.

Butters sighed. He liked feeling important, being the paper's lone photographer, but some days he wondered if he would be able to keep up with the demands of his position. He did enjoy making Eric's donut runs, at least, and reassured the paper's chief editor that he would be on his way soon.

The Dunkin Donuts he usually stopped at was halfway between Speedy's and the high school, and relatively quiet as he stepped inside. He waited patiently in line, giving the young man behind the counter a wide smile.

"Hey, Craig. I'll get the usual dozen."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The halls of South Park High were void in the first few minutes of the lunch break, except for a few stragglers and teachers going about their business. A pair of students lingered at a locker, one of them poking through its contents in a sluggish, dejected manner. His companion watched sympathetically.

"Don't worry about it, man. Maybe she's not up for it, or something. She just broke up with him, you know?"

Kyle Broflovski gripped the spine of his French textbook, but didn't have the heart to try and yank it out from where it was wedged between _A Condensed History of Europe _and _The Iliad_. Instead, he snatched his lunch from the top of the stack and slammed his locker shut.

"Yeah. I guess. It was just embarrassing."

His cheeks still felt hot, remembering his stumbling failure from first period Trig. He sat behind Bebe Stevens, and spent a lot of time trying to see the whiteboard around her pile of blonde hair, but today had been different. He hadn't quite minded his spot, and instead of racing out of the door to get to his next class, he had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

"Hey, Bebe."

She was slinging her bag over her shoulder, lost in thought, but turned at the sound of her name.

"Huh?"

Kyle noted the earbud clutched in her hand, halfway to her ear. "Hey, I was wondering…" His palms, which had been quite normal and dry an instant before, were now itchy and damp. "You want to go to the soccer game with me tomorrow?"

He saw the people in the seats around them pause, some of them grinning. What were they laughing about? Did they notice his sweaty palms, or something?

Bebe glanced from side to side, her mouth open in a surprised O. It took her a moment to answer.

"Oh. Uh. Thanks, Kyle. Maybe some other time?"

Some other time would have to be never, since it was the school's last game of the season. Kyle swallowed and looked down at the floor.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Okay."

Bebe was gone by the time Kyle looked up, his face now the same color as his brittle, cold-frizzed hair. The walk to his next class had been a quick blur.

"She is going, though," Stan said, bringing him back to the present. "I mean, she's going to be there with Wendy."

"Uh," Kyle grunted, still perturbed. That would make things awkward. Or not. It wasn't like he had asked her out on a date, or anything. He liked Bebe, sure, but not like that. Or at least he didn't think so.

"Maybe I'll talk to Wendy about it."

Kyle rolled his eyes, shifting his bag before leading the way toward the cafeteria. "Come on. About what? Try to convince her to tell her best friend to go out with me?"

His tone had been snide. He knew very well what was happening between Wendy and Stan, at least where the University of Virginia was concerned.

"Not like that," Stan mumbled, even though that had been precisely that.

"You won't make her change her mind," Kyle said flatly. "Just get over it, man, I mean, what's the deal? It's not like another planet."

"Yeah."

"Wendy doesn't do anything except what Wendy wants to do. Don't mope about it."

"I'm not moping," Stan snapped. The relationship advice from his chronically single best friend was beginning to grate on his nerves. "I'm cool. I'm over it."

Kyle didn't believe him, but didn't push it. He didn't have time to; as they rounded the corner to the double doors that lead out into the courtyard. Through the glass panes, they could see boy struggling to carry a stack of binders in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

Stan rushed ahead to assist him, opening the door as Kyle reached out to catch Butters as he stumbled.

"Thanks guys," the young man said, looking flustered. His hair stuck out in every which way, and the arm carrying the binders looked strained.

"Is all this for your _classes_, Butters?" Stan asked, incredulous.

"Uh, no," Butters replied. "This is Eric's. I mean, I got it for him."

"Cartman?" Kyle groaned. "You don't have to do everything for him, you know."

"Yeah, but, he's editor-in-chief." Butters shuffled his feet anxiously. "I'm helping him. It's okay, guys, I can handle it."

Stan and Kyle exchanged looks, but knew they couldn't say anything to dissuade their stubbornly dedicated friend, no matter how misplaced his loyalty was.

"Okay," Stan said, pushing the door open again and gesturing for Kyle to go out first. "See you around, Butters."

"See you."

As Stan and Kyle headed out, Butters shuffled into the corridor. He barely heard the squeak of another pair of sneakers on the tiles before he felt something heavy crash into his left side. His heavy load of binders flew into the air, followed by the paper bag he carried, and a sharp pain shot up his knees and elbows as he sprawled across the floor. Whoever had run into him was also sent tumbling, but was up before he could see who it was.

Butters watched as his assailant rolled over a few of the strewn binders, shouting, "Sorry, guy!" before sprinting down the hall. Turning to see just what he was running from, Butters saw the school's overweight security guard jogging toward him.

"Are you okay, son?" Officer Charlie wheezed, stopping to thoughtfully rest his hands on his knees and pant for breath.

Butters was already squatting, gathering up his things. "Yeah," he said. His arm hurt, and one knee felt a little scraped, but he'd recover; still, he wondered just what he'd done to get run into so much lately. He stooped to pick up his now-squished paper bag, clutching it between his teeth as he hefted binders beneath each arm. Luckily, the computer lab wasn't much farther, and he walked into the room with a relieved sigh.

Eric was already there, tapping away eagerly at the keyboard, an open can of Coke beside him, even though they weren't supposed to eat in the lab.

"Here, Eric," Butters said, depositing his burden on the table, next to the monitor, easing himself into the chair at the next table over. He toyed with the rumpled-up paper bag, wondering if he dared open it to see the state of his lunch now.

"Thanks, Butters, you're a real pal," Cartman said absently. His pudgy posterior looked like it had been in the chair for several hours, if Butters could gauge anything from the empty chip bags in the garbage can shoved under the desk. How did he get away with skipping his classes so much?

As devout Butters was to helping Cartman, the fat boy was twice as dedicated to his role as chief-editor of the school's newspaper. His passion for news could be a bit overwhelming at time, which had lead to most of the other students quitting the club. Butters couldn't blame them, knowing full well how demanding Cartman could be.

He sensed Cartman's attention shift at the sound of the paper bag opening.

"What's for lunch?"

Butters sighed. "Deviled eggs." He didn't like the hors d'ouvres his mother had beset upon him this morning, but they had a lot, filling up their refridgerator (plus the refridgerator in the garage) in anticipation for some social event his parents were preparing for. Butters had tried to appease them, bringing a platter to a party over the holiday break, but no one had eaten any, and Kenny had wound up throwing them out anyway.

Without speaking, Cartman stuck out his hand, and Butters handed over his lunch obligingly. He watched as the other rolled it open, and widened his eyes as he looked inside.

"Butters! You bastard!"

Butters jumped, not expecting such a vehement reaction.

"What? What is it?"

Cartman quirked a brow, a smirk forcing dimples to appear on his chubby cheeks. "Butters, this is not deviled eggs." He offered the bag back.

Confused, Butters accepted it, and peered inside. The next moment, he hurled it away, as if it were on fire.

"Oh my God!"

88888888888888888888888888

"What's in the bag, Mr. Tucker?"

Craig's nostrils flared. His ankle stung and his chin was probably bruised from when he smashed into that other kid in the hall, but that wasn't why he was distressed. The tall, commanding figure of the Dean of Students was what aggravated him. He hadn't expected Officer Charlie to call for back up, and while he could easily outrun the campus security, Mr. Rogers was in the peak of health, and not so easily avoided.

Tricky bastards.

They'd sprung an ambush on Third street, so clever that not even the Goth Kids had caught on. Craig had been humiliated enough, forced to run through the school in order to keep himself from being caught with drugs on campus, but here he was, cornered in the second-floor bathroom, about to get served a suspension that he really, really didn't want.

"I said, _what's in the bag_, Mr. Tucker?"

"My lunch," Craig lied, hugging the paper parcel closer to himself.

"Hand it over."

Craig was almost sure that the Dean was violating some code of student's rights. Almost sure, but not sure enough to refuse. Carefully schooling his expression into indifferent haughtiness, he obeyed.

Rogers unrolled the crumpled (and now slightly damp) bag and peered inside. He wrinkled his nose, and Craig braced himself for an anti-drug tirade that he'd heard before in every health class since sixth grade.

But, to his surprise, Rogers closed the bag and returned it to him. "Thank you, Mr. Tucker."

Craig's sore knees were weak. He was getting away with it? The notorious Dean of South Park High-the _zero tolerance _policy South Park High-was going to let it slide?

Craig was so astonished that he blurted out, "Mr. Tucker is my father."

Rogers scowled at him from the bathroom's exit, but said nothing. As soon as the door shut behind him, Craig dropped his backpack and collapsed against the side of a stall.

"Fuck yes," he said, tossing the bag into the air and catching it. It felt good to get away with breaking the rules, especially when he hated the consequences. He wasn't worried about his parents, or the actual suspension that he really, probably deserved, but he didn't really want to stay home all day. If he wasn't at school, he didn't have anywhere else to go. He'd probably be forced to drive his sister around, and _hell _if Craig Tucker was going to do something like _that_.

He paused his victorious juggling. His bag of blunts felt heavier than it should, not to mention a good deal squishier. He hoped they hadn't been damaged beyond repair in his little traffic accident downstairs, and he pulled the bag open to see.

What he found did not even remotely resemble what he expected. Instead of weed, he found a plastic bag of yellow mush, and white, round things. What were those? Boiled eggs? Opening the baggie, the smell was unmistakable.

"_Shit_," he said, his voice echoing in the small lavatory. He kicked a stall, the door swinging in and bouncing back into place, rattling the lock.

The euphoria was quickly disappating as he tried to think of what happened. He'd been running from Officer Charlie, with his bag clutched under his jacket. And then what? He'd crashed into that kid in the hallway and dropped it, but had picked it up again right after…

Or had he? Did the other kid have a paper bag, too? If he had a bag full of eggs, that meant whoever he'd run into must have _his_, and that meant Craig would have to find him, before-

His train of thought was interrupted as the bell calling the end of lunch rang out over the intercom, calling the students back to their classes. Craig swore and kicked again, shoving the bag of eggs into his backpack before storming out of the bathroom. He would find out who it was and get his weed back. It couldn't be hard. After all, how many kids in this school liked deviled eggs?

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The student council room was actually just a large storage room, across the hall from the teacher's lounge, but recognizing the reality of a thing, more often than not, seemed to greatly reduce its significance. After all, while they held their meetings, people rarely came in to sidle around the too-large table and squeeze behind their chairs to search for something, like extra paper or ink or industrial hole-punchers. For as long as they were the student council, Token reckoned, it would be the student council room. Thinking of it like that (and even calling it that in every day conversation) also made him feel a little important, even purposeful, and with everything outside of that cramped space confined to unexceptional drudgery, he would hang onto that purpose for as long as he could.

As self-important as Token was, he was brilliantly exceeded by his fellow council members. Scott Malkinson and Heidi Turner were usually mild and polite, along with Rebecca Reynolds, who was sometimes so quiet he forgot that she was there. Across the table from Reynolds was Rebecca Cotswold, who was probably the most passionate and outspoken of them all.

Well, almost. She had the attitude of someone who assigned themselves a post, but she really was no match for Wendy, who had beaten her every year in the race for Student Body President. While they did argue, at times, Token had never seen them really go all out-but after watching Wendy work over other schools' debate teams and even disagreeable classmates, he hoped he never would. In fact, he wasn't sure if he was going to see Wendy at all, since it was ten minutes past the time the meeting was set to start, and she had not yet appeared.

She did finally arrive as Malkinson let out his ten-thousandth wistful sigh, which he quickly took back in at the sight of her blotched, red-nosed face. She had her head ducked, allowing her black hair to form a curtain against the rest of the world, but they all heard her hoarse, nasally voice.

"Sorry. Hi."

Taking her usual seat next to Token, Wendy had her backpack up on the table, making a show of rifling through it for something as she tried to regain her composure.

Token's mouth was set grimly as he leaned over and whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Wendy sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's okay. Did I miss anything?"

Wendy wouldn't talk until she wanted to, if she wanted to. But Token already knew what the problem was.

"No, we haven't started yet."

"Okay."

Wendy's face and mind were clear by the time she had pulled out her note-taking binder and shoved her backpack to the floor. She was never one much for multitasking, focusing on the task at hand. She would deal with her turmoil of emotions later.

Or just not deal with them at all.

"Okay, so we're all here now," Rebecca Cotswold said, not looking at Wendy. "Heidi, do you want to read the minutes from the last meeting?"

Their last council meeting had been before the holiday break, too far back for anyone to bother remembering. No one listened as Heidi listed the events that had transpired and votes that had been cast, instead staring politely into space.

"Thank you, Heidi," Wendy said once the other girl was done. Heidi only nodded, setting aside the paper and readying her pencil to write down what would happen today. "Okay, what's the first thing on the agenda?"

Scott Malkinson cleared his throat. "The FSLA trip to D.C. is next week, right?"

Token leaned forward, tapping the table with his fingers. "Right. All next week. That means I'll be gone, will I miss anything?"

"Next Friday is the deadline to sign up for next year's class offices," Rebecca Cotswold said, almost too quickly. She glanced at Wendy before looking at Token. "Are you running for Treasurer again?"

"I've already put my name down," Token said smoothly. "I'm not worried about that. Anything else?"

"No," Heidi shook her head.

"Okay, so the FSLA trip," Wendy tapped her finger with the eraser end of her pencil. "And the officers' deadline. What else?"

"Glee club is getting ready for another fundraiser," said Cotswold. "I've already got the paperwork. The Dean signed it, and I've got Mr. Vance lined up as teacher chaperone."

Wendy paused, then shook it off. "Cool, okay, you have a date, or a place or anything?"

Scanning over a piece of paper in her hand, Cotswold answered, "No sure date yet, but we were thinking something of a tailgate party, a barbecue, you know?"

It was a bit cold for that sort of thing, Wendy realized, but kept it to herself. "Okay," she said instead. "Get back to me when you've got it figured out."

"The last soccer game is tomorrow, but we've got softball season coming up, and wrestling," Token pointed out. "Do we have vendors lined up for the home games?"

"I don't have the schedule for the softball season yet," Wendy began.

"No one goes to softball games," Gary Harrison interrupted.

Wendy scowled at him. "But I'll get it from Bebe or the coach once it's finalized, and I think we'll stick with the same vendors we had last year."

Heidi wrote it down.

"Wait, shouldn't we vote on it?" Cotswold asked.

Wendy's expression was exasperated. "Is it really necessary?"

"It's a democracy," said Gary.

"Shut up," said Token.

"We can vote when somebody comes up with alternatives," Wendy said with a tone of finality. "What's next? Becca?"

The heads around the table swiveled around to face the red-haired girl at Token's other side. Rebecca Reynolds had been silently listening, but the hand she had tentatively raised now lowered, and she inhaled deeply.

"I had an idea," she said ambiguously. "I mean, I think we should start a GSA group."

"A what group?" Malkinson queried.

"GSA. Gay-Straight Alliance," Reynolds clarified. Her cheeks were bright red, and her hand was shaking, though she had them clenched in her lap so that only Token noticed.

Silence followed her words. She was staring at the center of the fold-up table, and seemed to have stopped breathing, until Malkinson burst out:

"Are you gay, or something?"

"Scott!" Wendy said sharply. "That's none of your business."

"No!" Rebecca objected at the same time, her blush deepening. "No, I just mean, all of the other schools have them, or are starting them. I think we should have one."

Token opened his mouth to say something, but Harrison spoke first. "Just because the other schools do doesn't mean we should. I mean, there are lots of schools who don't."

"I don't think we should," Rebecca Cotswold added.

Wendy watched Reynolds's face. It was carefully blank and unmoving. "Why not?"

"Because…" Cotswold spoke slowly. She was watching the other Rebecca, too, and measured her words cautiously. "I don't think it's okay. The whole being gay, it's not okay."

Token felt some vague sort of anger uncoil in his stomach. "What do you mean?"

"That's what I've always been taught," Cotswold said firmly. "And that's what I believe. Homosexuality isn't natural, I mean, I don't think it's something that a school should really endorse."

"It's not endorsing," Wendy's full attention was on Rebecca Cotswold now as she tried to find words herself. She objected what the girl was saying, but this was not like debate, or reciting a memorized speech. It wasn't something she thought about, or really mattered up until now. A part of her wished that Becca hadn't brought it up at all.

"It's not _endorsing_," she repeated. "And there's nothing unnatural about it. GSAs are important, they're for reaching out and giving kids safe spaces to be themselves. I think that kind of thing should be a part of our school."

"You could give people the wrong idea," Cotswold argued.

"The wrong idea about what?" Token asked harshly. "No one is making you join."

"You'd still need the faculty's permission," Heidi said. "Or does this kind of thing go to the district?"

"It doesn't need to go to the district. Glee club and chess club don't go to the district," Wendy glared at Cotswold.

Rebecca Reynolds hadn't said a word, but she was watching the flurried exchange, her eyes darting back and forth like an observer at a tennis game. Her face had drained of color now, and Token could see sweat beading on her lip.

"Vote on it?" Suggested Cotswold, who was fully aware of the numbers on her side.

Wendy snapped. "The student council doesn't need to approve club formation."

"Well if the council doesn't need to do anything, why are we even talking about it?" Cotswold's temper rose to meet Wendy's, an unspoken challenge. Heidi had long stopped jotting down notes. "I still think it's a bad idea. I mean, it's nobody's business, right?"

Wendy's day was going bad enough already, and while it wasn't even her idea on the table, she still had to suppress the urge to reach out and slap the snide look off of Rebecca Cotswold's face.

"I guess. Okay. Fine."

As soon as the meeting was declared over, Rebecca Reynolds was the first one on her feet. Leaving would prove to be difficult for her, however, since she still had Token and Wendy between her and the door. She had said little for the later half of the meeting, and refused to meet anybody else's eyes.

It became a little more maneuverable once Rebecca Cotswold and Gary Harrison left, and she muttered an apology as she squeezed past Heidi and slipped out. Wendy watched her go before turning to look at Token. His face was grave, and he gave a jerky nod, urging her to follow.

Wendy left her bag and stepped out into the void hall. Most of the lights had been turned off already, though she could hear voices coming from the teacher's lounge. She headed left, and reaching a corner, saw Reynolds speeding down a corridor in the direction of the student parking lot.

"_Becca!_"

For a moment, Wendy wondered if Becca had even heard her, but realized that it would have been impossible for her to not have. She half-jogged toward the redhead, who turned, facing her with the same void expression she had worn through the meeting.

"Becca," Wendy said again as she drew even. "Hey. I wanted to say, I think your GSA idea is a good one. I think you should do it."

Becca's eyes moved to the floor. "I can't."

"You can," Wendy asserted. "You don't need the student council, or anything. I don't know what Rebecca's problem is, but don't listen to her. I mean, that's what GSA is all about right, educating people? You just need the Dean and the other supervisors-"

"I already talked to Mr. Rogers," Becca said softly. "He said he wouldn't give his permission."

Wendy stopped, surprised. She had never heard of the Dean refusing a club before, even stupid ones. "Really?"

"Yeah. But it's whatever. Thanks, Wendy."

She was crushed. Wendy could see that. She didn't know why this GSA was important to Becca now, since she'd never brought it up before, but clearly whatever hopes she had before the meeting were now thoroughly squished.

"Wait," Wendy said, holding up a hand to stop the other girl as she turned to continue leaving. "Maybe we can change his mind, or something? I still think it's a good idea."

"Thanks, Wendy," Becca replied with a flat, empty smile. "See you later."

Watching her go, Wendy let her hand fall back to her side. A GSA _was _a good idea, that much she was sure. In fact, now that she thought about it, she wondered why they didn't have one already, when other schools had them for years. It wasn't as if they lacked a community for it, right?

But why did she care?

Wendy had never had to defend a club before, and she wasn't a member of many herself, but she wouldn't try to deny anybody making one. It was like the stories she saw on the news, about gay marriage and adoption and all sorts of rights debates that didn't seem to matter in her every day life. It was none of her business, just like it wasn't Rebecca Cotswold's business, but people like her seemed to be the only ones standing up on soapboxes and making a big deal over it.

She said as much to Token as they made their way to the front of the school.

"There's other people too," he said. "People who don't do anything, that aren't for it or against it."

"What, you mean, like, they don't care?"

"I don't know, I mean, did you really think about it before Becca brought it up?"

Confessing it out loud was almost embarrassing. "No, I guess, not really."

Token raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought you had an opinion on everything."

She gave him a halfhearted shove. "I don't know."

And she didn't. Wendy Testaburger didn't know what she thought, except that rights were rights, and everyone should have them. It would make it a hypocrisy if they didn't right? Or was it really that easy?

Token interrupted her thoughts, asking a question of his own, "What happened today?"

He could only mean before the meeting. Wendy studied her shoelaces before answering. "I was arguing with Stan. About college. He just won't let it go."

"He's like you, like that."

Wendy looked up sharply, her brows coming together.

Token laughed. "Not like in a bad way. I mean, you're stubborn. He's stubborn. Usually he's the one that gives, though."

"Yeah, well, he's not giving up on this one. I'm so tired of it, Token." Wendy sighed, her breath rolling out into a cloud. "Not just the college thing. I have to argue and debate and write essays in class, I don't want to have to do the same thing with my _boyfriend._"

"But you guys can't agree all of the time. That's not healthy."

"We agree, sometimes. And we disagree, we're normal. That's not even the point." They reached the parking lot, and across it Wendy could see a red, two-door Pontiac parked at the curb, steam curling out of the exhaust. "I think that's Craig over there. When's your flight?"

"We leave Sunday morning. Inhumanly early. But I'll see you tomorrow."

Token raised his hand in farewell, taking a step toward his own sedan, the only other car left in the lot. "Later."

The Sunfire's windows were fogged, so Wendy knocked on the passenger side before opening it. As she expected, Craig lounged in the driver's seat, his clothes looking rumpled and his hat askew. Had he been sleeping?

"'Sup," he said huskily, reaching forward to flick off the radio.

"Hey," Wendy said, surreptitiously glancing around the car's interior. It didn't give much of a hint to the life of its owner-it was clean, with change in the cupholders, and a pile of CDs in passenger seat. A student parking permit hung from the rear view mirror, along with a pineapple shaped air freshener that had long lost its scent.

"You can, uh, put your bag in the back," Craig said, leaning forward at the same time to shove his music into the glove compartment. This was complicated by Wendy pushing back the seat at the same time, but after a bit of pushing and fumbling, she was comfortably situated, and tried to close the door behind her.

It bounced back, making her jump. Before she could apologize, however, Craig said, "It's off center, you gotta kinda wiggle it a little."

"Oh." It creaked in protest when she did so, but eventually, Wendy heard it click shut. "There we go." She pulled the seatbelt over her shoulder, and heard Craig do the same.

"Cool. Okay. Dick's."

They hadn't spoken much during class, but hadn't needed to, since it had all been vocabulary review. Wendy wouldn't admit it, but she'd been relieved that he'd been sober, and that he was still sober now. "Yeah. Do you know how to get there?"

"Uh, no. I've never been."

"Okay. It's easy, it's on Park Way, just a bit past Shakey's."

"Oh, okay. I know Shakey's."

He peeled away from the curb, turning the car around and heading toward the intersection that would take them to the street Wendy had named. As he drove, Wendy reached into her pocket and pulled out her cellphone, which had been on silent during the entire meeting. Her stomach filled with an unnamable dread as she saw the messages on the screen: three texts and two missed calls. All from Stan.

She sighed and flipped the phone closed. She wasn't going to deal with it right now. She looked out of the windshield in time to see the light for their lane go from green to yellow. But instead of slowing down, Craig began to speed up. He slammed on the gas and made a hard right as Wendy clutched the door handle and stifled a shriek. A car horn sounded behind them as the car straightened out, continuing along the wider Park Way.

"Oh my God!" Wendy gaped at her impassive chauffer. "Be more careful!"

"What?" To her disbelief, Craig seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Drive more carefully! You almost got us killed!"

"Relax," Craig said dryly. To his credit, his eyes hadn't left the road since they'd left the school. "And don't tell me how to drive. This is my castle."

"_What_?" It was Wendy's turn for confusion.

"My castle," Craig repeated, pulling his right hand off of the wheel to gesture indistinctly. "My car is my castle, man, you can't just tell me what to do."

"Yeah, well, it'll be your coffin if you keep driving like a maniac."

"Don't call me a maniac." They reached another intersection, and Craig put on the brakes just in time to keep his bumper from kissing the next car's taillights. From the corner of his eye, he could see Wendy stiffen up, as if anticipating the inevitable crash.

Whatever. He was a genius driver. It was everyone else on the road that was crazy.

They continued in silence for another few blocks, Craig entertaining himself to see how badly he could make Wendy freak out before she decided to throw herself from the car. But she seemed to catch on to his game, or at least became preoccupied, so by the time they had passed Shakey's he had to ask twice which side of the road the sport's store was on.

"Oh. Sorry. Left side."

"Great," Craig muttered. He hated making left turns.

Fortunately, there was a lull in the oncoming traffic when they reached the turn into Dick's parking lot. He was momentarily awed by the enormous sign; he'd never seen the word _dick _spelled out in such huge letters before. How had he lived his entire life in South Park and never seen it?

He parked and climbed out, knowing that he didn't really have the option of waiting in the car as Wendy went in to find the worms they'd come for. That, and he was kind of curious about how and where a sporting good's store kept worms, anyway.

The automatic doors opened, and immediately Craig was hit with the smell of leather. A large bin of rolled-up fleece blankets, emblazoned with the symbols of a dozen professional teams, was just inside the door, and beside it, another bin of folded-up lawn chairs. Beyond that were aisles upon aisles of instruments that seemed more like weapons than tools of recreation, but he wasn't about to point that out.

"We need the fishing department," Wendy said, breaking him out of his reverie and leading the way down one of the aisles, past shin guards and face masks and elbow pads that were so thick they might have been bulletproof. When they emerged from the other side, they faced a wall comprised entirely of baseball bats.

Wendy was muttering the word "fishing" over and over again, but stopped to call out. "Bebe!"

Looking down the direction Wendy had shouted, Craig saw a blonde girl perusing the assorted bats, though she moved toward them when she heard her name.

"Hey, Wendy," she said, her face splitting with a wide grin, though she regarded Craig with puzzlement. She looked kind of familiar, and he wondered if they'd had a class together before. "Hey."

He only nodded. Wendy explained, "We're here for worms, for bio. You here for…?"

"Softball," Bebe finished with a nod. "I need a new practice bat, you know." She rolled her shoulders in a shrug.

"Cool," Wendy said before glancing at Craig. "We should probably get to it, but I'll call you later, okay?"

Bebe's expression faltered, and Craig distinctly felt as though he had missed some unspoken, telepathic message that had passed between them. The girls hugged, something that seemed a little unnecessary-didn't Wendy just say she'd call her?-but Wendy was back to business a moment later, headed along the back wall until the rows of bats turned into rows of fishing poles. The location of the worms was surprisingly mundane and somehow disappointing: a glass case of smaller containers of them, besides tanks of small bait fish and terrariums of other bugs. Craig half expected his lab partner to turn squeamish and flinch away from the wriggling dirt-dwellers the way his sister did, but she reached right in and pulled out a jar, holding it up to the light to inspect its contents.

"It says it holds twenty worms. We should be okay with twenty, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said, suddenly aware that he had not a clue what the actual plan was for executing their assignment. "Where are we going to keep them?"

Wendy began to walk toward the front of the store. "Well, I have some old fish tanks at home. We only need, like, three, right?"

"Yeah?"

She detected his wariness, stopping to turn around and lay it all out. "It's all about seeing what makes the worms reproduce better, so we need variables, right? Different diets for the different tanks, and a control."

"Got it."

It wasn't until they had bought the worms and were back in the car before Craig voiced another question.

"Where are we going to keep the tanks?"

Wendy had the bag cradled in her lap, and seemed genuinely startled, as though she hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Oh. Uh. I don't think I can keep them at my house."

"Why not?"

"My mom, she's got this thing about bugs."

"But they're not bugs," Craig said. "They're worms."

"Yeah, but…" The expression she gave him was borderline pleading, and she probably didn't even know it. Craig gripped his steering wheel and scowled at the hood of the truck parked in front of them.

"My place, I guess." His parents probably wouldn't mind, since it was for school. His sister would be grossed out, which was a bonus.

"Thanks. We can get the tanks from my house first. And we're gonna need, like, potting soil or something from the gardening store."

Craig swore as he turned the key in the ignition. "What the fuck, they're just worms. Can't we just get, like, dirt, from wherever?"

"_No_," Wendy replied like an impatient teacher. "We have to control everything, there's too many variables in just plain old dirt. Don't worry, there's a Lowe's between here and my house."

Despite Craig's aggravation, the bags of potting soil were rather easy to find, and as they drove up the hill toward Wendy's house, he realized that they lived relatively close to each other. South Park was a small town, it was almost impossible to _not _be neighbors.

He followed her into the her house to carry the fish tanks, exchanging pleasantries with Mrs. Testaburger before heading upstairs. Craig refused to cross the threshold into Wendy's room, instead standing in the hall and staring at a space on the white wall beside a family photo as she dug through her closet. The entire house was filled with the aroma of apple pie, which was misleading; there was no pie, only air fresheners that polluted the air with false promises.

"I can set these up by myself," he said once they had loaded the tanks into the trunk of his car. "Since you're home already."

"Okay. Thanks, uh," she pointed at the tanks, which were small, as she'd said, and would probably be easy to fit on the credenza in Craig's living room. "Just remember, an even number of worms in each one, so I guess six. That means you'll have two extra…"

"I'll feed them to my guinea pig."

Wendy was temporarily horrified, but tried not to let it show. "You have a guinea pig?"

Craig didn't answer as he slammed the trunk shut.

"Make a list of what you put in the tanks. I'll bring over some grass clippings, or whatever," Wendy said after a moment. It sounded like she was inviting herself to his house, and it didn't sound like he was hot on her being there in the first place. "Or bring them to you at school, whatever."

"Okay," Craig said, wiping dirt off of his hands. "See you tomorrow."

"See you."

For an instant, Craig worried that Wendy would insist on hugging him, but instead she walked up through her lawn and into her house. When Craig sat back down in the driver's seat, he became aware of a sulpherous sort of smell, and after a moment of hesitation, he picked up the bag of worms and gave it a whiff.

Suitably satisfied that the worms weren't giving off the offending odor, he set off on the swift drive home. It got worse as he drove, and at every stop sign, he took a minute to crane his neck around and study the back seat, as if he hoped the invasive stink monster would materialize and he could boot it out on a street corner.

He had to roll the window down by the time he got home, and was relieved as he crouched in the yard, filling the fish tanks with store-bought dirt. His parents were still at work when he brought the worms inside, but his sister was there to demand an explanation. She squealed and retreated to her own room when he brandished the two extras in her face.

Despite his earlier threat, he didn't toss them into his guinea pig's cage. They'd only shrivel up and die, since he'd learned long ago that Stripe was a strict vegetarian. So he flung them into the yard, spared from becoming a science experiment, but left in the hands of less forgiving fate.

When Craig retrieved his backpack from his car, it was clear that it was the source of the smell. Dumping it on the dining room table, he ripped it open, plugging his nose with one hand and digging through it with the other. He eventually pulled out the rumpled up bag of eggs he'd gotten in the unwitting trade for his weed, and gagged. That was _foul_.

He was halfway to the kitchen trash before an idea made him halt. With a hand still covering the lower part of his face, he upended the bag into one of the worm tanks.

"Eat up, little buddies," he said nasally, using a corner of the bag to poke one of the brown, slimy subjects. The rest had already disappeared into the dirt (or so he assumed.) The bag went into the garbage, and he pranced around the room with a can of air spray. It settled on the furniture, masking most of the egg stink, and belatedly he wondered if he should have checked to see if it was toxic to tiny life forms. But how would he find that out, exactly? Call poison control?

He'd done his part. He would probably need a new backpack, and was freshly determined to find out who had his weed, but he also had homework to do, and an incredible urge to nap. Deciding which to do first proved to be too straining on Craig Tucker's disposition, so his body made the decision for him: no sooner had he dropped his bag by the door to his bedroom did he walk up to the foot of his bed and fall forward onto it, asleep.

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**AN**:

For this fic, I have been basing the layout of South Park on a town I lived in while I was in high school. However, the likelihood of you having lived in the same town and knowing what it looks like is slim (at least I hope so) and I thought maybe I'd give the readers a rough outline of my mental South Park:

With downtown at the epicenter, South Park is divided into quadrants by two roads, the east-west running Main Street and the north-south running highway (let's call it Park Way.) SP High's back parking lot and baseball diamonds are located on the north side of East Main Street.

Downtown is small and pretty typical, with a large grocery store, some shops, the hospital, and a bus depot/train station. Immediately southeast of downtown (directly south of the school) is a residential area. North of downtown, following Park Way, are stores and restaurants, like Shakey's and Dick's, and apartment complexes, gas stations, etc. Park Way eventually crosses another major highway (an interstate, I guess?) that runs east-west, and continues into a more industrial area, where the bowling alley and Speedy's garage is located, and then into another town, which in this case I suppose would be North Park.

The interstate goes east, passes by a drive-in theater and up a hill into another large residential area. This north-east residential area can be considered where Bebe, Butters, Wendy, and Craig live. (However for their safety I can't give you any actual addresses.)

East of the high school is another street that runs most of the north-south length of town. Let's call it Green Street. North along Green are some residential areas and shops. In that neighborhood is the middle school and some parks.

Between Green and Park Way in the south reaches of South Park are some grittier residential neighborhoods. The elementary school is located here, and Kenny might live here. A railroad runs parallel to Park Way, and on the other side (the west side) of it is the shopping mall and movie theater.

There is another hill on the south end, where Green Street runs up into another residential area. Token, Clyde, Stan, Kyle, and Cartman live up here.

Having a mental map helps me keep track of things and write better. People who are visual readers might like having an idea of South Park's layout, too. It'll become more important later on.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Changing the name of the story to Pulp Fiction, after the Motion City Soundtrack song, from their album _My Dinosaur Life_. It's one of my favorites, and the songs, in my mind, fit a lot of the characters, especially Craig and his lot.

* * *

><p>Chapter Six<p>

The clouds that had promised rain that Thursday morning had unleashed a cold, howling torrent by third period. It was lulling background noise to the rows of biology students hunched over their microscopes, murmuring to their partners and jotting down notes about the amoeba they were observing.

Or, at least, most of them were. Wendy Testaburger sat silently, staring out of the window into the strange early twilight, though she didn't see the grey-black clouds or the water-smeared glass. Her pencil half-hung out of her mouth, held there between her teeth, a pose that would seem pensive and thoughtful to an unassuming teacher. Craig Tucker, on the other hand, was only annoyed.

"Hey," he hissed, reaching out to prod her shoulder with his pen. "_Hey_. Are you gonna look in this thing, or what?"

"Huh?" Wendy asked stupidly, crash-landing back on Earth and whipping her head around to face Craig. "What?"

He pointed at the microscope, and Wendy noticed that his own worksheet was already mostly filled out. She leaned forward and mumbled, "Oh. Sorry."

"It's your grade," Craig replied. Though they shared microscopes and samples, it was still an individual assignment. Wendy's absentmindedness, however, had presented a role-reversal that normally he wouldn't give two shits about, but she'd been distracted the day before, and from what he knew about Wendy, that wasn't normal.

He didn't like it when things weren't normal.

"Is something up?" He asked as she wrote down her answers in smooth, legible print, a stark contrast to his cramped scrawl.

She looked up at him, surprised. Perhaps even a little uncertain. Had she heard him correctly? Did Craig really ask her if something was up?

His own expression was not concerned, or even remotely curious. It was as stoic and bored as ever.

"No," Wendy replied, returning her attention to her paper. "It's nothing."

Craig wasn't worried, but he also wasn't stupid. _It's nothing _usually always meant _something_, and he really hoped that the something wouldn't interfere with his partner's performance in class. He knew better than to let it happen, but other people tended to let some aspects of their lives spill into other parts where they didn't belong, making a mess of their lives as a whole, usually along with someone else's. And Craig was not prepared to be Wendy's therapist.

He was glad when she seemed satisfied to drop it, finishing up his assignment with the relative peace of mind inherent to people who didn't care about a whole lot. But he had counted his chickens too soon; as the last few minutes of class crawled by, she interrupted the quiet:

"What would you think about a GSA here?"

Craig had been experimenting with how far he could lean his seat on its back legs while keeping his backpack centered on his lap. It still smelled like eggs, and he got a noseful of the stench as he eased his chair back onto all fours.

"A what?"

"A Gay-Straight Alliance."

Craig folded his arms over his backpack. "I don't do clubs."

Wendy was sitting like a normal human being, with her knees crossed and her hair down, which made her look much more at ease. When it was pulled back in a ponytail it made her seem harried.

"Well, I don't mean like you have to join it, or anything," she clarified. "But what would you think if there was one?"

"I wouldn't," Craig said flatly. "I don't care."

He was being less than helpful, and Wendy frowned. "You don't care about gay rights?"

Craig matched her scowl, and then some. He did not like the accusatory tone of her voice. "I never said that, some high school club and gay rights are two different things."

"But they aren't," Wendy insisted. "I mean, in high school is where it all starts, isn't it?"

"I guess." Craig was hunched over his bag now, impatient for class to end. "But I don't care what people do, it doesn't have anything to do with me."

Wendy didn't say anything for a while. Then, somberly, "Do you think it's bad if you don't think about things that don't have anything to do with you?"

Craig's eyes widened with incredulity. "What the fuck?"

"What I mean is," Wendy said, sitting up straighter. "Like, the GSA or gay rights or whatever, sure, they don't have anything to do with you, but they kind of do, you know? Like, even if you're not gay, it's kind of important for you to stand up for what's right, right?"

His face took on a kind of self-important smirk. "I think all this stuff about rights is shit."

Wendy grew horrified. Was Craig in league with Rebecca Cotswold, prejudiced and uncaring? "What? Why?" Not that it was her business, either, but she didn't think she could work with someone like that on a daily basis.

He didn't seem to notice her reaction, still huddled in an uncomfortable slouch. "Rights are just a bad idea. For everybody."

Wendy stifled a sigh of relief. So Craig wasn't some sort of homophobe, but she still didn't quite get what he was meaning. Was he some kind of communist now? Or did he even know what he was talking about?

"What do you mean?"

Craig watched the minute hand of the clock inch closer toward freedom. "I mean, think about it. The whole thing about rights is that some people have some and some people don't. And people argue about them. But the idea is that some people have this power to give rights or take rights and that just seems to be against the point, you know? Like, it's not really freedom or your right if it can be taken away from you. It's just a privilege."

Oh. Craig did know what he was talking about, even if he wasn't very articulate. Wendy had heard something similar before, but hadn't expected Craig to have such a thought-out philosophy. It seemed to go against his policy of not caring.

The bell rang, and Craig was on his feet in a flash. "I didn't say that," he told her, swinging his backpack over his arm. "I heard it from some comedian. But good luck with your gay club."

He turned around and was nearly to the door when Wendy called after, correcting him, "It's not a _gay club_!" The other students in the room stared at her, but she ducked her head, a curtain of black hair hiding her face as she scurried from the room.

* * *

><p>The library was too quiet, and too unlikely a place to find Clyde Donovan during lunch, but lo, there he was, staring at a buzzing monitor as the other boy beside him jiggled the mouse.<p>

Somehow, Clyde hadn't been at all surprised to find that Kevin had already beaten him here, since he looked and acted a lot like the library type. Not the kind of kid you'd expect on the school's wrestling team, but lo, he was. For now.

Lunch was only beginning, and as Kevin signed onto the school's network, Clyde looked around at the students who straggled in. Some he didn't know, but they had the look of quintessential nerds; others were easily recognizable classmates, but no one too terribly important. Turning back to Kevin, he watched his tutor double-click on a colorful icon on his desktop, pulling up a program called _Math Adventures II: Escape from the Great Pyramids_. He groaned.

"What?" Kevin asked, watching the pixilated animation of the program's startup screen.

"This thing is for kids," Clyde complained.

"Yeah, well, it works," Kevin replied. "Just give it a try." The wannabe wrestler clicked through the introduction and selected a lesson. "We'll start at the beginning."

Clyde wasn't listening. He was texting, but Kevin's elbow brought his attention back to the monitor.

"What? Yeah, okay."

He clicked through the first few problems easily; Kevin was relieved that his reluctant student at least had a grasp of basic algebra. However, when a triangle surrounded by mysterious integers blinked onto the screen, Kevin saw a familiar blank impassiveness appear on Clyde's face.

"What is it?"

Clyde scowled at the screen, annoyed by the buzzing computers and the low murmur of other people in the library. Kevin's judging frown was no help, either. He was probably thinking that Clyde was an idiot, incapable of impressing his teachers-but what did he care about the teachers, anyway? He didn't need math in the _real _world, as far as he was concerned. He could be doing other things with his lunch break, and pushed back from the desk with a grunt.

"Where are you going? You can't just give up," Kevin objected as Clyde got to his feet.

_You can't tell me what to do, antelope_, Clyde thought, but said nothing. Kevin pushed his own chair back, blocking his escape.

"You didn't even try." Kevin pointed at the monitor. "Come on, what is it?"

Clyde looked at the screen, then away, looking to see if any of the library's other denizens were paying them any attention. They weren't.

"I don't get it," he said.

"Don't get what?"

"This!" Clyde flailed helplessly at the screen.

Kevin looked between the computer and Clyde very slowly. "What part of it?"

"It doesn't matter," the other boy snapped.

"Yes it does," Kevin motioned for Clyde to take his seat. "If you don't let me help you, you won't learn."

"What do I need to learn this for? I won't need math for anything." He tried to push by Kevin, who held his ground admirably, for an antelope.

"You shall not pass!" Cried Kevin, earning a glare from the librarian, and a surprised look from Clyde.

"Excuse me?"

Kevin cleared his throat. "I mean, you have to learn this. Just to pass."

Clyde pointed a cold-chapped finger at his tutor. "You were yelling _Lord of the Rings _at me, you _nerd_."

A moment of silence rolled by, and Clyde sat down heavily, dragging his chair closer to the desk.

"I fucking love _Lord of the Rings_," he grunted. Maybe Kevin wasn't so bad; if they had Gandalf in common, maybe he could sit through this one tutoring session. A test run.

"Me too," Kevin said quietly. He shuffled through his backpack, pulling out a notebook and flipping it to an empty page. "Here, we'll go over it, and then if you have any questions, just say something."

"Alright," Clyde mumbled, not particularly confident that he'd get very far at all. But at least he was sure that Kevin wouldn't make fun of him for it.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Night had fallen on South Park, but the block around the high school was noisy and busy with energy. The bright lights of the football field illuminated crowded bleachers and cars that lined the street. Teenagers and their families, trussed up in their respective school colors, milled in front of the concession stand as they waited for the game to begin. On the field, two enormous soccer goals had been placed at each end, and between them, two teams warmed up, each excited yet resigned to this last game of the season.

Wendy had already found her customary seat on the unforgiving bleachers, the feeling already being leeched from her ass by the cold. On one side of her, Kyle kept blowing into his gloves and hugging himself, which was better than the awkward conversation than he had been making before. On Wendy's other side, conspicuously silent, was Bebe, who stared absently into the crowd below. The anxious sandwich did little to improve Wendy's own mood, which had been sour and sullen since that afternoon. Yet another argument with Stan had left her feeling drained and indifferent, though that was exactly what they'd been fighting about.

Stan, much like Craig, had been unimpressed with the idea of a Gay-Straight Alliance. He didn't have anything against it, he'd assured Wendy, but it really made no difference to him either. He was confused by how passionate Wendy had suddenly become about the issue, though Wendy knew it was only because she was avoiding the subject of college, and how no matter what Stan said, she would never join him in Virginia.

Wendy was startled when Kyle began waving his arm frantically, breaking out of her reverie to look for whoever he was gesturing at. She realized it could only be Stan, who was standing in the field, staring into the crowd and trying to spot them. Usually, she'd be easy to find with her bright pink beret, but she'd crumpled it in her hands without realizing what she was doing. Guiltily, she imitated Kyle (but with a good deal less enthusiasm) and Stan saluted them with a grin.

As the soccer star turned back to join his team at center field, Wendy switched her attention to Bebe, who hadn't said a word since they'd sat down. However, before she could, a messy-haired blonde boy shuffled by behind them, camera in hand.

"Hey, Butters," Kyle greeted the newcomer loudly, relieved to have someone to talk to. Butters answered with a smile, glancing at Wendy and Bebe shyly.

"Hey, guys." He jiggled the camera in his hands. "Picture for the paper?"

"Sure," Wendy said, plastering on an expression of excitement, even offering a thumbs-up. She didn't know Butters very well, but liked him-he was always at school events, but considering he was the only person besides Cartman who worked on the school paper, he didn't have much of a choice. The camera's flash left spots in her eyes, and she blinked them away as Kyle asked Butters to join them.

"Thanks, but I can't," Butters replied. "I'm on assignment."

Kyle stifled a snicker, covering it up with a half-hearted cough. "That's too bad. Okay. Good luck, buddy."

Butters nodded, stepping carefully down the bleacher steps as a loud honk sounded over the stadium's PA system. The two teams assembled on the field, one side dressed in green, the other in blue, both separated by a referee in black and white stripes. Wendy could barely hear the ref's whistle as the game began, the players quickly becoming fast-moving blurs against the green turf.

While Wendy was not the biggest sports fan, she was surprised at her own disinterest in the game. An icicle of panic shot through her chest as she wondered if it was because she was rapidly losing interest in Stan-something half of her had begun to already accept. But the other half was terrified of this change, and the inevitable hurt that would come with it. Bebe next to her was a reminder of that, though her best friend's melancholy couldn't really be because she had an asshole for an ex-boyfriend, could it? Bebe was stronger than that!

Wendy's eyes found Stan as he sprinted across the field, shouting to his teammates, throwing himself into the game that he loved. It was with that same passion that he kept trying to change her mind. Token had been right when he'd told Wendy that both she and Stan were stubborn, but tonight she felt too exhausted to go on. And the tiredness had transformed into a feeling that she was not at all familiar with-or, if she was being honest with herself, a lack of feeling. For the first time that she could remember, Wendy Testaburger _just didn't care_.

Was this what Craig felt like? She wondered, and then immediately became horrified with herself for thinking it. She was just having a bad week-she was nowhere near having Craig Tucker's chronic don't-give-a-shit-syndrome. Besides, as he had told her that afternoon, he didn't care because he didn't see the point. But Wendy Testaburger saw the point of what she was doing; she wanted to go to go to college, grow up, _become something_, and that was why she would not give in to Stan. Wendy cared about her future, even if it seemed so much easier not to.

Around her, a cheer went up as someone on their team scored. Worked up by her own inner monologue, Wendy joined in, jumping to her feet and yelling along fervently.

The outburst startled both of her companions, who looked at her as though she'd sprouted a new set of eyes. Sheepishly, she sat down again, but was relieved to feel the blood pumping through her limbs again, her sluggish depression from earlier now shaken off. She knew what she had to do, and even if it worried her, it wouldn't do her any good to procrastinate. Like tearing off a bandaid, she and Stan would have one last talk, and even if it hurt, they would both walk away from it and toward something better.

She hoped.

* * *

><p>Far from the bright lights and epiphanies of the high school, Kenny McCormick eased shut the door to Speedy's office, keys jangling as he began to lock up for the night. The sound of heavy eighteen-wheelers passing by on their way to and from the surrounding warehouses had long since ceased, and he couldn't hear many cars on the main road. He didn't mind the quiet, though, and was startled by a loud crashing sound from somewhere behind the building. It came from the alleyway where they put out the garbage, and his brows came together in annoyance.<p>

It could only be raccoons, and while they didn't usually get them down here so early in the evening, the critters always left a mess that Kenny hated cleaning up. Hoping to scare them off before they made too much of a wreck, he pulled his wrench from the hammer loop of his carpenter's pants and circled around the building. He hit it noisily against the wooden fence between the back lot and the alley, and listened for noise of the trespassers. When he was answered by silence, he opened up the gate and stepped into the narrow, gravel-strewn lane.

The tall, grey blocks of buildings prevented the light from the street from reaching where Kenny stood, and he squinted into the twilight, making out the irregular shadows that were the rows of garbage cans he was usually responsible for. As his sight adjusted, he saw that none of them had been knocked over, though the lid of one had ended up a few feet away. Still clutching his wrench, he trudged over to where it had fallen, next to a brand-new hole in the fence.

As Kenny crouched, he heard a low growl bubble up from the splintery blackness. His hand paused on its way to pick up the trash lid, and he stared into the hole, trying to discern just what was on the other side of it. A raccoon? They didn't normally attack people, unless they were sick or something. A dog, maybe? If it was a dog, he might be in trouble, but the hole didn't look like any sort of dog would fit through it.

Instinctively, he raised the wrench over his head, ready to bash whatever creature was certainly going to try and murder him while he was just doing his civic duty. He stayed there, frozen, for what felt like a long time. The growling faded, and he wondered if the creature had gone.

Kenny's hand clamped down around the lid, and something wriggled out of the hole, too quick for him to see. He felt its claws as it raced up his arm, and the sharp stab of its teeth as it bit into his throat. His cry of pain and surprise was drowned in the sound of gurgling blood and the crunch of gravel, the wrench clattering to the ground as he tried to fight it off. More shapes spilled out of the hole, leaping on him, knocking him on his back and sinking their jaws into whatever exposed flesh they could reach.

Kenny couldn't scream. He thrashed on the ground, his face contorted by emotions that would have been alien to any other person who might have seen him. After a long while, he became still, and the squirrels that had mauled him peeled off of his corpse, their fur matted with blood. They darted down the alley in a strange shambling formation, as if dazed or drunk, their little rodent eyes glinting in the moonlight.

* * *

><p>The enormous scoreboard on one end of the field declared that the game was nearly over, with both sides tied. Kyle had long since wandered away to try and find better company, leaving Bebe and Wendy to sit in their own thoughts. As time had passed, Wendy had imagined and re-imagined how she would tell Stan that they were over, until she had become so familiar with the idea that she was almost looking forward to it.<p>

She came back to earth when Bebe began stomping her feet on the concrete riser, trying to cajole feeling back into her toes. They'd talked a little once Kyle had gone, but nothing substantial had passed.

"You all right?" Wendy asked, clicking her own heels together.

"Cold," Bebe replied. "And tired."

"You wanna go home?"

Bebe looked surprised. "What about Stan?"

Wendy was already on her feet. "He came with his mom. It's whatever. We should probably beat the rush, anyway."

Sidling past their classmates, the girls made their way down the risers, to the concrete walk between the home bleachers and the field. The crowd was in an uproar as the final seconds ticked by, Wendy looking up to see what had happened. Though they were closer, she couldn't pick Stan out, but wondered if maybe she should stay to see who won.

They paused at the fence, where a few other people were waiting, ready to head to the parking lot as soon as the final buzzer went off. Wendy sighed, fingering the keys in her pocket, half-hearing as Bebe asked her something.

"Hmmm? What?"

Bebe's lips quirked in a strange smile as she repeated herself. "I asked if you were all right."

Wendy imitated her best friend's expression. "Oh. Yeah. I think so. A lot better now." She glanced back over the field again, then back at Bebe. "Are you?"

The question hung in the air heavily. Wendy was asking about the last week-about Clyde, about everything that they hadn't had a chance to talk about, even though they'd needed to. Bebe's hesitation was visible, but finally, she answered.

"Yeah. A lot better."

Wendy had no idea that Bebe was going to lean forward at that moment; it caught her off guard, but immediately she reckoned that she was going in for a hug. She raised her arms to comply-but something wasn't quite right. Bebe wasn't reaching out to hug her. She was leaning in, and quite suddenly, they were kissing.

Rather, Bebe's lips were on Wendy's, but only for a moment. Her rough, curly blonde hair brushed against Wendy's cheeks, tossed up by the breeze. Their perfumes mixed for an instant, and the air was cut by the grating sound of the buzzer. The game was over.

* * *

><p>Stan Marsh howled victoriously, his two fists punching the air. His legs were sore, his lungs ached, and he felt ready to fall down and sleep right there on the turf. But he'd just kicked the winning goal, with zero seconds to spare, and he was going to be trampled by his teammates if he wasn't careful. They swarmed him, everyone soaked through with sweat and flush in the face. Flashes from cameras were going off as he looked up into the stands. First he saw the gleeful face of his mother, and beside her, Kyle, and gave them both a boisterous thumbs-up. His heart began to sink, however, as he realized that Wendy was nowhere in sight.<p>

On the second row of the stands, Butters Stotch celebrated his own victory-the crowning achievement of his high school photography career. He'd managed to capture the moment of triumph on camera, a shot worthy of any sports magazine or big-town paper. Grinning at the camera's display, he couldn't see any of the details on the little screen, but he couldn't help but think that Cartman was going to be very pleased.


End file.
